Zebulon Rudulph.
Reading edition
Zebulon Rudulph was the second son of Tobias Rudulph, an account of whose family is given elsewhere in this volume. He was born in Elkton, June 28, 1794. Though well remembered by some of the older residents of the place of his nativity who knew him when they were young, but little is known of his early life except that he was possessed of a kind heart and an affable disposition; and appears to have been more given to the cultivation of his literary tastes, than to the practice of those utilitarian traits which had they been more highly developed, would have enabled him to have reaped a richer pecuniary harvest than fell to his lot from the cultivation of the others.
For a time in early manhood Mr. Rudulph was engaged in merchandising in Elkton, and subsequently became the first agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company in that town, which office he held from the time the company commenced business in 1837, until 1840 or ’41, when he removed to Memphis, Tennessee, where in 1847 he published a small volume of 247 pages entitled “Every Man’s Book; or, the Road to Heaven Staked Out; being a Collection of Holy Proofs Alphabetically Arranged as a Text Book for Preachers and Laymen of all Denominations.” Mr. Rudulph was a Universalist, and the object of the book was to inculcate the tenets of that denomination.
Mr. Rudulph remained in Memphis for a few years and subsequently removed to Izard county, Arkansas, where he died a short time before the commencement of the war of the rebellion. He was a voluminous writer, and the author of a large number of fugitive poems, many of which are said to have been quite humorous and possessed of much literary merit. Very few of his poems have been preserved, which is much regretted for the reason that it is highly probable that those extant do not fully set forth the poetical ability of their author. The following poems except the one entitled “Thoughts on the Death of his grandchild Fanny,” were published in The Elkton Courier nearly half a century ago.
The Surprise.
At twilight one ev’ning, a poor old man, Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days, (That now were dwindled to the shortest span:) Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys: Whose hoary locks should e’er protect from scorn, One who had ceased to court earth’s fading joys,— Knock’d at a door, thus lonely and forlorn.
A pilgrim’s staff supported his frail form, Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door; And feeble tho’ he seemed, he feared not harm, For ’neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore. A menial came, and thus he spoke:—‘Away! Old man, away! seek not to enter here: We feed none such as you: so hence! I say:— Perhaps across the street you’ll better fare.’
In broken accents now the pilgrim plead— ‘Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad; And bear a message from the absent dead, To one who dwells in this august abode. Thy mistress,—fair Beatrice,—dwells she here? If so, quick, bring me to her instantly; For I have speech that fits her private ear Forthwith: none else my words shall hear but she.’
Now, ushered thro’ the spacious hall, he passed Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone, Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan. ‘Be seated, aged father;’ thus she said: ‘And tell me whence you are, and why you seek A private conf’rence with a lonely maid Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek.
‘If true it is, from distant lands you come, Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way; If so, be silent, be forever dumb, Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say, That all is well with one most dear to me, Who, two long years ago, forsook his home, And now forgets his vows of constancy, For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.’
As if to dash a tear, he bends his head, And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks: ‘Alas! my words are few,—thy friend is dead!’— As monumental marble pale, she shrieks, And falls into the aged pilgrim’s arms; Who, justly filled with terror and dismay, In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms, As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.
But, slowly she revives—when, quick as light, His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by— And what is that that greets her ’wildered sight? Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?— Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned, Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:— And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned, He vow’d to her, he never more would rove.
Thoughts,
On the Death of My Grandchild Fanny.
And all wept and bewailed her: but He said, weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.
—Luke 8:52.
Oh true, “she is not dead, but sleepeth—” Her dust alone is here; The spirit pure that Heavenward leapeth, Hath gone to bliss fore’er.
’Twas but a fragile flower that lent Its sweets to earth a day; From Heaven’s parterre ’twas kindly sent, But ’twas not here to stay.
Weep not, fond mother, that lost one; ’Tis clasped in angel’s arms— From earth’s dread trials passed and gone, ’Tis decked in seraph’s charms.
See how it beckons thee to come, And taste its rapture there;— No longer linger o’er that tomb— To join it let’s prepare.
The Decree.
And the king said, bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. And the king said, divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other. Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned upon her son, and she said, O my lord give her the living child, and in no wise slay it.
—I Kings 3:24-36.
Hark! did you not hear that loud shriek? Ah! do you not see that wild eye? List—do you hear that mother speak For her son that is doom’d to die?
Behold the eloquence of love! A mother for her child distress’d: A gush of feeling from above Invades and fills her yearning breast.
That flood of tears,—those wringing hands, Mark her abandonment of soul, As, list’ning to the king’s commands, Her grief refuses all control.
My child! my child!—(tho’ she betray it,) “The living child” give to my foe! ‘Where is my child?—Oh! do not slay it! Let me my arms around it throw!’
Thus nature’s impulse bursting forth, Reveals the mother’s kindred blood, And stamps upon her claim the truth: Whilst foil’d the guilty claimant stood.
Such love breathes not in courts, where meet Soft, studied ease and pamper’d vice: As soon you’ll find the genial heat Of nature’s sun in fields of ice!
And that fond soul was one like she Who bathed the Saviour’s feet with tears: And hers, like Mary’s ecstasy, Flows from the influence of prayers:
For, Solomon had sought of God Not hoards of wealth, nor “length of days:” But holy unction from His rod, The bright indwelling of Truth’s rays.
A View from Mount Carmel.
And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down upon the earth, and put his face between his knees. And said to his servant, ‘Go up now, look towards the sea.’ And he went up, and looked, and said, ‘There is nothing.’ And he said, Go again seven times. And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he said, behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s hand.
—I Kings 18:42,41.
Up Carmel’s wood-clad height an aged prophet slowly creeps, And sadly drags his weary limbs o’er rocks and mossgrown steeps. He bows himself upon the earth, “his face between his knees,” And thus he to his servant speaks, beneath the lofty trees.
“Go further up this craggy steep, and seaward look, I pray—” His faithful servant goes, and strains his vision towards that way, But says “there’s nothing.”—“Go sev’n times,” the prophet says “for me,—” And on the seventh time, behold! arising from the sea,
A little cloud, as ’twere, no bigger than a human hand,— But swiftly, darkly spreading o’er the parched, thirsty land, It widely displays its threatening armies thro’ the sky, Its lurid lightnings flash in forked streaks upon the eye.
Like countless fiery serpents thro’ the troubled air, Whilst loud the roaring thunder bursts amid the flaming glare; And rage the winds, uprooting mountain oaks before the view,— Refreshing show’rs descend, and quick the fainting earth renew.
Scarcely could Israel’s monarch in his chariot reach his court, Ere nature’s pent up elements broke forth in airy sport, And to earth (which for three long years had known nor rain nor dew,) The long desired drops, their welcome downward course pursue.
Once more Samaria’s people gladly tune their harps and sing The praises of Jehovah, God, the everlasting King:— Once more, the voice of gladness sounds where naught but anguish dwelt; There, once again, the gush of rapture, absent long, is felt!